He wrote poems to her beauty that he recited from a seemingly infinite memory. “You asked me in to tea,” he protested. And if you treat me in this way, you will have my death to answer for, as well as the deaths of my husband and child. That was the true miracle of the gift; without actual experience, to imagine love and hate and greed and how they would react upon each other; and then, when these passions had served their temporary purpose, to cast them aside for new imaginings.
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